


remember this, remember where you are

by scenedenial



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: AU where they’re not famous and just suck, Arguing, Couples STI testing, Drunken hookup, It gets fluffier as it progresses, Kissing, M/M, Meet-cute except it’s literally the opposite of cute, One Night Stand, Sex, Talking, Watching back to the future and eating lots of food, annoying brat Timmy, armie being noble, ass eating cause duh, chilling, the author clearly has very little knowledge about how sti testing actually works, they grow on each other, they’re both just exceptionally stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17828045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scenedenial/pseuds/scenedenial
Summary: “This is the worst thing I’ve ever done.” Timothée is sitting on the paper-covered table with the little hospital gown on, looking simultaneously like something Armie wants to devour and make fun of. The gown probably suits him better than it suits Armie, anyways. This shit barely covers his junk. “Like, this is worse than taking the SAT.”“I bet you aced your SAT.”“I mean.” Timothée says, shuffling around in a way that makes the cover crumple noisily. He wrinkles his nose. “Yes.”





	remember this, remember where you are

**Author's Note:**

> This is so stupid but I kinda love it I hope you guys enjoy,,, I needed a little break from working on _your two shoes_ so I just finished off this thing I’d started a bit ago :’)
> 
> As always: this is fiction! Idk these two! I don’t think they’d be this stupid irl!

“Nuh uh.” Timothée says ( _”yeah, it’s Timothy, no, like, the French version? Like, e-e, fuck you, it’s not pretentious”_ ), pulling on a sneaker as he hops around on the other foot, his sweater twisted haphazardly around his midsection. “No fucking way.”

“No, come on, I _have_ to now.” Timothée shakes his head in vehement response, grabbing at his wallet where it sits on Armie’s counter, the drivers license in the front flap bearing almost no resemblance to Timmy now. The Timmy in the photo has short hair, an awful bleach job that Armie has vague memories of railing on him for last night between shots of vodka and tequila. 

“You’re not taking me to get tested.” Timothée’s still surveying the loft half-frantically, trying to gather up his things that seem to have been spread in a thin, drunken person layer. Armie’s head pounds as he gropes for a bottle of aspirin in the cabinet above the sink. “Not in a million years. I don’t even know you.”

“But I have a _responsibility_.” Armie counters. “I’m the one who put my dick in you.”

Timothée waves his bony hands around his head, face scrunched up, as if he’s trying to forget a terrible memory that popped back into his head from middle school. Armie might be offended if the expression wasn’t so damn funny. 

“I cannot fucking believe this.” He claps a hand to his forehead; the exact kind of goddamn primadonna who’d have two e’s at the end of his name. “I never have one night stands.”

“Well, you did last night.” Armie’s found the aspirin, and swallows three in quick succession over the sink. Timmy holds his hand out and Armie taps three more into his thin white palm. Timothée looks at them, and puts one back into the bottle. Ha. Fucking lightweight all around. 

“Yeah, _clearly_.” Timmy gestures frenetically at Armie, then back at himself, the motions seeming to be heavily crotch-oriented. The kid’s eyes are wide and slightly crazed. 

“Look, _please_ let me just take you to the clinic with me. It’ll be a weight off both our shoulders.”

“It’ll be a weight off _yours_ , do-gooder... man.” Timothée trails off, awkward, and Armie can’t help but laugh at him for it. He’s met with a glare in response. “I can take care of myself.”

Armie is tempted (more than tempted) to remind him that the only reason they’re in this scenario in the first place is that he rescued Timothée from a gaggle of college girls too off their faces to take a hint by sliding up behind him and easing an arm over his shoulders. _”Hey, baby, you ready to go?”_ As it turned out, he had been. Armie stays stoically quiet on that, though. 

Timothée is still ranting around the too-small kitchen, muttering more to himself than to Armie.

“Who the _hell_ doesn’t think about using protection?”

“ _You_ could have thought about it!” Armie shoots back.

“You were sucking my dick! I couldn’t think about anything!” 

Armie drops his head back against the cabinet and laughs. 

“Was that a compliment? It felt like a compliment.” The way Timmy’s face reddens with frustration is gratification enough in itself. 

“You know what? Fine.” Timothée unplugs his phone from the (Armie’s) charger in the wall and shoves it into the back pocket of his ridiculous, tight jeans. “You can take me to the clinic. On one condition.”

Armie raises his eyebrows.

“We never fucking speak again after the fact.”

“Fine by me.” Armie replies, but he’s laughing too much for the statement to have any kind of bite. “Don’t forget your keys, _Timothée_.”

 

Timothée is sitting in a rickety waiting-room chair with his arms crossed, heel tapping out a despondent rhythm on the carpeted floor. Armie watches the pale knobbiness of his knee where it peeks through torn jeans, the hunched jut of his shoulders. Beautiful. 

“You know,” Armie says, in an attempt to make conversation, “you too could look like _this_ with the simple addition of _one undiscovered superfood_ to your diet.” Timothée’s eyes flick up to the crumpled magazine that Armie’s holding up, featuring an amazingly busty middle aged woman on the cover. Timmy snorts, and it’s massively satisfying. 

“Oh yeah?” Timothée drags the toe of his shoe through the stretch of carpet between them. “What’s the superfood?” 

“This dick.” Armie deadpans, because he can’t fucking resist the opportunity. Timothée flounces and rolls his eyes like an eighth grade girl. 

“You’re impossible.”

“I know.” Armie’s pawing through the other magazines scattered on the side table (while sneaking glances up at Timothée, who’s staring at his phone, seemingly determined to _not_ look at Armie) when a nurse steps into the waiting room. 

“Mr. Hammer?” Armie stands, grins at her. 

“That’s us.”

“What?” Timothée snaps, popping up out of his chair too. All lithe and leggy. Armie smiles at him without trying to hide it. “That’s _you_.” 

“They said they could do us both in one go. Faster that way.”

Timmy looks like he’s about a second and a half from strangling Armie to death with his bare hands, but he just breathes in through his nose and follows the nurse back into the hall, tiny shoulders squared. 

“This is the worst thing I’ve ever done.” Timothée is sitting on the paper-covered table with the little hospital gown on, looking simultaneously like something Armie wants to devour and make fun of. The gown probably suits him better than it suits Armie, anyways. This shit barely covers his junk. “Like, this is worse than taking the SAT.” 

“I bet you aced your SAT.”

“I mean.” Timothée says, shuffling around in a way that makes the cover crumple noisily. He wrinkles his nose. “Yes.”

“What was your score?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Yes you do.” Armie chides, scratching at his shin. It’s fucking _cold_ in here, and the air smells all foreign and medicinal, and, well, Armie is glad Timmy is with him. 

“Yeah, I do.” Timmy finally concedes, eyes crinkling. “1560.”

“Wow.” Armie chuckles, although he isn’t actually quite sure how the scoring works. He forgot about that portion of his life as quickly as humanly possible. “Bet you got into every college there is.”

Timothée looks at him with those clear green eyes and crooks one brow up.

“I didn’t go to college.”

It’s good timing when the nurse walks back into the room after rapping on the door, because there isn’t a fucking thing that Armie can think to say. 

“Hi, gentlemen.” Timmy smiles at her, but his leg is jittering hard. Armie wants to put a hand on his knee.

“Hi.” Armie replies, shifting in his paper gown. 

“STI testing for the both of you?”

“That’s right.” Armie says, suddenly feeling like it was actually a very fucking bad idea to bring Timothée here with him. 

“Okay, since you’re on the table, I’ll start here.” The nurse turns her attention to Timothée, who swallows audibly and dryly. Jesus. 

She takes his info and vitals.

Full name? Timothée Hal Chalamet. (Hal? Fucking Hal? Armie resists the urge to snort, but barely.)

Height? Uh, like 5’11?

Weight? I, uh, I don’t know. 

She makes him walk over to the scale and step on it. 144.8. Armie could pick him up in one hand. 

“When was the last time you were tested for any kind of STI?”

“Hm.” Timothée breathes out through his nose and it whistles. “Never.”

Armie blinks. _Jesus_.

“Are you two here as a precaution, or have you noticed some sort of issue?”

“Precaution.” Timothée chokes out, and Armie realizes she thinks they’re a _thing_ at the same time that Timothée says, “We’re not a _thing_. We just hooked up without protection, accidentally.”

Armie’s glad as hell that he wasn’t the one who had to give the explanation. The nurse makes that non-judgmental _hmm_ noise that medical professionals have, and snaps on a pair of gloves. 

“I’ll need a blood and a urine test from both of you. We should have results within the day.”

Armie’s almost cold with relief to realize that no one will be sticking anything up his dick. Blood and urine is a fucking _breeze_. The nurse opens a drawer and places two, like, piss cups on the counter. Armie hasn’t used one of those since his college sophomore year, a physical for baseball. 

She’s wrapping Timmy’s arm in the little tourniquet when he speaks, voice high and cracked. 

“Armie?” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared of needles.”

Oh, fuck. Of course. Armie’s chest almost aches for the boy on the table. He stands up without really knowing what he’s doing. 

“We can break for a minute.” The nurse says, her voice soothing. 

“No, it’s okay.” Timothée doesn’t _sound_ like it’s okay. He directs his attention back to Armie. “Will you just, like, come hold my hand?”

Armie does, of course he does. Timothée almost breaks every bone in Armie’s hand with the way he’s crushing down on it, and his face is turned away from the needle in his left arm, gaze trained on Armie. 

“So, I bombed my SAT.” Armie says, in an attempt to distract him. “I had to retake it. Twice.”

Timmy almost smiles. 

“But you went to college, right?”

“I did. It was on a sports scholarship, though.” Timothée’s brows scrunch like he’s really thinking about that piece of information. Armie sees the needle meet his skin in his peripheral vision and starts talking again because he doesn’t want it to hurt. “I played baseball.” Timothée actually does smile at that, smile while squeezing the living shit out of Armie’s fingers. 

“That’s exactly what I would’ve guessed.”

“I know, right?” 

“Or hockey, maybe.”

“Really?” Armie laughs, and the nurse says _done_. Timmy looks surprised. 

“You made it.” Armie says to him, and doesn’t make a move to wrangle his hand out of Timothée’s. 

“I guess so.” There’s a moment where they look at each other and Armie feels his face getting hot, before Timmy is shepherded off the table and Armie takes his place. 

“How are you with needles?” The nurse asks him, like she’s getting slightly tired of them, and he says _fine_ because he is. But then Timothée is relegated to the tiny off-room bathroom with the piss cup and Armie wishes he’d lied so Timmy would stay and hold his hand. 

He gets his blood drawn; takes his own piss in a cup; dutifully writes down his number so the clinic can get in touch with the results. 

“Look.” He says to Timothée as they’re leaving, the plasticky green bandage on Timmy’s arm visible and sweet. “Doesn’t it make more sense if we just hang out together until we get the results back? Like, otherwise I have to drive you home and get your number and go back to my place and get the call and then call you and it’s just—“ Timmy cuts Armie off from his nonsensical rambling with a grin and an eye roll. 

“Yeah, fine. What’d you have in mind?”

 

Armie ends up taking him to a deli on the outskirts of his neighborhood, the kind where you order at the counter and everyone who works there is sort of big and old and mean looking but the sandwiches and pasta salads are so fucking good that you’d let yourself be tortured for them. 

“Oh my god.” Timothée says when he swallows the first bite of his Reuben; his eyes _literally_ close.

“You’re more responsive to that sandwich than you were on my cock last night.” Armie teases, likes that it makes Timmy choke a little. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re massively egotistical?”

“Has anyone ever told you that it’s annoying when you use words like egotistical?” Timmy rolls his eyes (he’s good at that too) and grabs Armie’s coke off the table. Armie doesn’t protest. 

“Has anyone ever told you that taking a boy for a piss test and a sandwich is usually not the way to seduce him?” Armie laughs at that, okay. 

“Has anyone ever told you that not everyone who looks at you is trying to seduce you?” Timothée eats the pickle off Armie’s plate in retaliation. 

“Dude.” He says around a mouthful. “You do remember sucking me off like you were trying to pull my soul out of my body, right?”

“Oh, I do that to everyone.” Armie retaliates, but his neck is hot. 

“Sure.” Timothée watches him from under hooded eyes. 

Their next stop is a bakery, mostly because Timothée has that scrappy, hungry millennial look about him that makes Armie want to pack food into him. 

They walk with their coffees (Timmy surprises him by ordering a plan drip—Armie would have pegged him for a macchiato kind of person, latte at the very least) and pastries, trailing crumbs behind them on the sidewalks. 

“Where are we going?” Timmy finally asks, tossing his empty coffee cup into a trash can by the intersection. He looks cold. 

“Are you cold?” Armie asks, should’ve anticipated his curt head shake. “Sure. Anyways, there’s a bookstore right up here.”

Timmy looks at him strange. 

“What?”

“I just wouldn’t have pegged you as a bookstore person.”

“And I wouldn’t have pegged you as a dropout.”

It’s a joke, right, it’s supposed to be a joke, but Armie knows as soon as it leaves his mouth that it was a really, truly fucked up thing to say. Timothée’s face kind of shutters itself closed and Armie want to suck his own words right out of the air between them. 

“Hey. No, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, fine, Armie. You know what, don’t worry about it. I’ll just call the clinic later for my results.”

“Wait, wait, you don’t have to do that.” Timothée has turned away and is walking back the way they came, fast and with his thin shoulders squared. “Stop, god, I’m really sorry.”

Armie is kind of half-chasing him down the street, suddenly realizing that _no_ , this can’t be the end of it, when Timmy stops in his tracks and whirls back around. His eyes are dark and angry. 

“Look, asshole, you don’t know me, okay? I’m really fucking smart.” His jaw is tight and set.

“I know that, Timmy.” 

“No, you don’t. You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know my situation. I read fucking _War and Peace_ in sixth grade, okay, so, just. Just fuck off.”

“I.” Armie starts. He’s desperate to fix this. “I haven’t read _War and Peace_.” The fight seems to drain out of Timothée’s face.

“Seriously?” Armie nods. “Fucking everybody’s read _War and Peace_.” 

“Not me.” 

“God.” Timmy looks down at his feet, back up at Armie. His gaze is steady. “Idiot.”

“Yeah.” Armie says, holding his hands palm up, like, _I know_. 

“You said there was a bookstore?”

“Yeah.” Armie repeats. 

“Let’s go, then.”

Timothée looks like he belongs there, in the dark and dusty aisles with his brow furrowed, running a finger over a shelf, up on his tiptoes to peer higher. 

“Here.” He says, finally, turns around and drops a huge book into Armie’s hands. “Tolstoy.” 

“Are you mad?” Armie holds the book to his chest. The light in the store is dim enough that he has to focus to make out Timothée’s expression. 

“Kind of.”

“I’m really sorry. That was a shit thing to say.”

“Yeah, it was.” Timmy sighs, looks tired. 

“I don’t know why I thought it’d be okay to joke about. That was stupid.” 

Timmy turns back to face Armie, puts a hand flat against his chest. It’s so unexpected that Armie’s breath sort of stops up in his throat. 

“You are stupid. But I like you.”

“Really?” Armie feels shaky and weak-limbed. The Tolstoy seems to weigh a lot more than it did a second ago. 

“Yeah. For whatever reason.”

“I like you too.” Armie’s voice sounds strange. Timmy stares him down, hand still pressed into his chest. 

“Let’s get out of here.” He finally says, taking the book out of Armie’s hands. “It’s too dusty.”

Timothée is sliding the book over to the cashier before Armie can stop him.

“Wait, you don’t have to do that.” Timmy is fishing around in his pocket, come up with a crumpled ten. 

“I want to.”

 

They go back to Armie’s loft, because it’s cold out and the clouded gray sky threatens rain, and because Armie likes the idea of Timmy on his couch, under his blankets, thumping around his little galley kitchen. 

“I hope I don’t have an STI.” Timmy says, curled up on Armie’s one living room chair with his legs hitched over the arm of it. His sock feet are big and sweet. 

“Me too.” Armie replies, squirting dish soap into a pan in the sink. “I’m sure we’re all good, though.”

“Yeah.” Timmy lets his head hang back, neck exposed and pale. “Like, you’re the first person I’ve slept with in five months.”

Armie watches him, steady. 

“Why’s that?”

“Are you saying I look like I could get it?” Timmy pushes himself up on his elbows and smiles at Armie. 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Timmy laughs at that, then swallows.

“My ex-boyfriend dumped me. It was sort of a long term thing, too.”

“Tim. I’m sorry.” Armie swishes the soapy water around the pan, then dumps it down the drain. 

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m better off without him. But I just, y’know, hadn’t gotten back out there.” Timmy stands up and walks over to the kitchen area, leaning against the counter opposite Armie. 

“So why last night?”

“You looked nice. And hot. But, like, nice. Like it’d be okay if I freaked out, or whatever. Also, I was drunk.”

Armie feels soft and gooey for him. 

“It would’ve been. Fine.”

“Thanks.” Timothée says, and his voice is soft too. “Can I help you with that?”

They wash the dishes, then sit on the couch while Timmy rifles through the box that holds Armie’s DVDs. 

“I think you’re the last fucking person in the world to own this many DVDs.” Timmy teases, looking up at Armie. His hair is curly and messy and getting greasy. Armie wonders if he washes it every day. Armie wonders what it’d feel like to put both his hands in it. 

“Leave me alone.” Armie grins back at him. _War and Peace_ is sitting on his side table. 

“Oh my god.” Timmy says, coming up triumphant with a case in his hands. “This is it.”

The movie he picks is _Back to the Future_. Timmy’s head finds its way to Armie’s shoulder as they watch it; when Marty McFly shows up at his parent’s prom, Armie crooks his head to the side and kisses him on the mouth. 

They make out and halfway through Timmy pulls back and pauses the movie because he _doesn’t wanna miss anything_ and that makes Armie laugh and when Timothée leans back into his mouth their noses clash hard enough to be actually painful and they end up in a limb-heavy tangle on the couch, breathing hard and giggling.

Timmy starts the movie again eventually, and they sit there with Armie’s hand on his inner thigh. Soon enough, the credits are rolling and Timothée is chewing on his lip and kind of wriggling and when Armie looks over he’s visibly hard in his jeans and it makes Armie’s stomach drop, like, a hundred stories. 

“Sorry.” Timothée says, dipping his head with this bashful smile on his face, and it’s the first time in the last 20-odd hours that he’s seemed truly nervous. 

“Don’t be.” Armie murmurs. He hooks a thumb through a belt loop on Timothée’s jeans. “Can I take these off?”

“Yes.” Timothée is nodding and Armie slides off the couch to kneel in front of him. His fingers feel too big and too clumsy and it’s work to pop the button and unzip the fly. Timmy sighs through his nose and puts a hand on the side of Armie’s face. 

“I want to eat you out.” Armie says, states, because there’s no real way to bring that up without just being bold as hell about it. 

“Sure.” Timothée says, or, really, breathes, jutting his hips up towards the ceiling. 

“Sure?”

“ _Yes_.” Timmy grunts, and he sounds impatient, and Armie laughs and slides his fingers under the waistband of his boxers. 

Last night, Armie had put his hands under Timothée’s hips and pulled them up and fucked him like that, looking down at his face as he ran his nails over Armie’s arms and chest. Last night, Timothée had bitten Armie’s earlobe and tensed around his cock until he came right up inside him. 

But now, Armie is seeing him like this—still and close-up and spread out—for the first time and it’s making his lungs work harder to keep him upright. Timmy’s skin is pale as hell and his ass is a gentle curve that Armie works his hand over to watch Timothée shiver. 

He starts with kitten licks, and it’s been a minute since he’s done this to anyone, and Timothée swears softly and Armie feels his ribs tense up inside himself with the things he feels. 

“Mmm.” Timothée sighs, pressing his knees further apart. He’s flexible as all hell, and Armie grins at it, presses his mouth to Timmy’s perineum, the underside of his cock. 

“You’re good at this.” Timmy murmurs, tracing one finger over Armie’s jaw. 

“What, did you think I wouldn’t be?” Armie looks up at his face, grinning. 

“That’s not what I said, dumbass. Get back down there.” 

Armie laughs and swats Timmy’s hip. “Careful, or I’ll be forced to let you finish this yourself.”

“You wouldn’t.” Timothée retaliates, but he does shut up quick. 

Armie flicks his tongue at the tight furl of Timothée’s ass and thinks about how he’d shaved recently and about how he could do this forever and he’d probably be happy. 

After Armie pushes his tongue right inside Timothée and gives his dick a couple of soft squeezes, it hardly takes any time at all. Timmy comes and apologizes while he comes and arches his back into the cushions of the couch while Armie keeps his mouth moving until Timmy’s shaking and pulling at his hair. 

Armie pulls back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“How was that?”

“That was fine.”

Armie raises his eyebrows. Timothée rolls his eyes. Again. 

“Fine, that was earth-shattering. That was a religious experience. I’m changed.” Timothée looks like he’s just gearing up, could keep going indefinitely, when Armie’s phone rings. Armie scrambles up, jeans undone and dick hard inside of them, and finds it in a pile of crap on the counter. The clinic. 

“Hello?” Timothée perches on the couch, naked save for his stupid t-shirt, and watches Armie quizzically.

“Is this Armie Hammer?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Okay, Mr. Hammer, I’m pleased to let you know that both you and your partner had tests that came back entirely clean. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Great, thank you!” Armie says, and he’s about to correct the _partner_ thing, but, really, why fucking bother. 

Timmy is still looking at him when he hangs up, eyebrows hitched high like, _so?_

“We’re all good.” Timothée sighs, melodramatic, and grins with all his teeth. 

“Whew.” Armie puts the phone down and settles back into the couch.

“So,” he starts, “I guess that means you can leave now.”

This time, the joke works. Timothée stares at him like, _idiot_ , then says _yeah, right_. 

Timothée sucks Armie off; they put _Back to the Future II_ in the DVD player; Armie makes them pasta with garlic red sauce and is happy, happy, happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Me, dragging myself across the ground like a walker in the walking dead: _commentttttt_


End file.
